I once knew a little man
Who kept at a job he did not understand
And day after day
He’d go off to work and he’d say:
Today I’ll learn who I am

But Monday came
And then it went
And Tuesday came
And it too was spent
Like Wednesday and Thursday
And then at last Friday
While he sat in a confused lament

And week after week
His office chair squeaked
Until finally he made up his mind
He’d quit, he decided, and just in time
For that very night he died in his sleep

(C) Marty Schoenleber III 2013

There aren’t always easy answers
or answers at all

And we know
an exit is not necessarily an escape

But where were
we headed anyway?

Away is such an undefined place
isn’t it?              But it’s
                           always better
than where we are, I think we’re
talking about the
same thing now

If you find a way out, shine a light
back here, I’ll keep
an eye out for it

she gave advice and
didn’t attend parties
strangers have more
interesting lives, she said
like a veil makes a bride
but when she went
she was cold air
across the floorboards

seen, yet dangerous
as the unseen undertow
she floated
in blue silk from
trio to trio
kissing hello
as the small of
her back waved
every spare hand
to touch
and gently pull her closer
to whisper secrets into
her jeweled ears

the red politicians
swore honesty
the bankers forgot loans
even the musicians
lost key
yet a soldier won
the Battle of Temptations

then, just past
midnight she was
haunting the fringes
of the room
like she belonged
there, on the edge
as if placement was
secondary to the art
of her movement
why shouldn’t it be?
everything else was

her eyes went wide
she looked dark
if they didn’t love her
at least they talked
when she left, it
got rather boring, so
we watched the kitty
and tried on a new coat

I don’t care if you did arrive
In a gray palace of clouds
Or if your bartender
Is lightning and your house band
Only accepts thunder claps
As applause
I’m not one of those
Cliché poets
Chanting your name
To play one more song
Believe me, I’ll be happy
When you’re gone

There are not enough
   poems about manatees
If you are interested in human
   rights being kicked like a dog
   and justice being dragged
   through mud, you can find it
If you are interested in love
   that aches with a “burning
   heart” or a “bleeding soul”
   you can find it
If you are interested in death
   that holds out its hand
   to you like relief, or takes
   one too early, you can find it
But where, I ask, do you find
   a badger in a turtleneck?
Or a cup of coffee that doesn’t
   sound so self important?    
If you’re interested in the
   ocean or the sea or maybe
   a single “crushing wave
   of emotion,” you can find it
If you’re interested in God
  dying to save you, or God
  abandoning you to the darkness
  you can find it
If you’re interested in athletics—
   especially running towards
   dreams and horizons—and
   losing and winning, you can find it
But where, I ask, do you find
   a good left-handed centipede?
Or a wonderful, ice cold beer that
   doesn’t turn into alcoholism?
If you want to find a poem about
   how the “gray rain spills from
   the clouds like the pain”
   you can find it
If you don’t want to find a poem
   about rain you’ll still find it
   (cause those rain poems
   are everywhere)
If you’re looking for a poem
   about regret and forgiveness
   and cruel mercy making false    
   promises, you can find it
But where, I ask, do you find
   a barbarian ballerina?
Or a cigarette whose smoke doesn’t
   outline the shadows of a lost soul?  
Show me these things, show me
   a fat manatee, and I will finally
   take a deep breath and smile

A seed grows
Where it falls

And at a
Ripe age

With leaves
It looks out

Sees other
Beds of earth

Where it might’ve
Taken root

But didn’t

It weeps autumn
Sighs through winter

And dreams of
Other soil again

Against the bar,
Wired up to electric blues

The somber not sober
Intoxication of music
Lands like a dragon, wings
Folding around the curve
Of a whiskey glass

Like lips in a drunk,
Drunk kiss getting
Some tongue between
A melody and liquor

This ugly habit—
Such a beautiful affair

Most days I feel like nothing
Old Uncle Walt sings the song of himself
But my voice cracks at that octave

I’m still fighting the same demons
The same anger and depressions
That grab round my ankles at night
And drag behind each step during the day

If I wake up in a storm, I try not to get swept away
But I don’t make myself promises
So it’s all I can do when the smoke rolls in
To get alone and try not to choke myself or flood you

The biting wind swirling in my skull
Escapes out of my mouth in curses
It’s no wonder they’re hurtful
My apology is an echo out of the empty dark

But I am sorry

It’s not about you
It’s not your fault
But when all I have is frustration,
What then am I to share?

it is a warm November
night on a delta in India
and at restaurant there
with hand-carved
wood balconies
a person leans over
the railing as their
hand wraps around the
etching of an elephant
they stare into the dark,
reflective water of
a small tributary of
some unnamed river
while behind them
there’s a fan turning
circles on the ceiling
in metronome to
a chorus of insects

last winter
at a downtown coffee shop
I sat on the bar stool near the window

I watched the people on the sidewalk
pulling their coats and scarves around their necks
keeping the wind out

I sipped a peppermint tea, a temporary comfort,
and watched
as they entered their apartment towers
moments later, high up, a window would light up with a yellow glow

a far away
warm, bright, home

and I’m looking at them, and I know, that I should go on
to wherever it is that hearts go on to
that it’s not doing me any good to sit here
wishing for a brightness of my own

but,

what’s hope for if not this?
I’m not sorry
I can’t be sorry
I won’t be sorry
that I’m going to stay awhile
looking at the lights in the windows
of everyone else’s home

He is not so drunk after all, the bars have closed, the streetlights glow orange above the sidewalks, a man is staggering towards the corner, swinging like a desperate orangutan from post to post on the iron gates that line the front porches, his shoes untied, he is mumbling, he is incoherent, he is wearing his finest shirt, I understand his every word

Take a deep breath inventory
Of yourself
Do not count your hands or feet
Not your wandering legs or
Wavering arms
Do not take inventory of your clothes
Not of your favorite shoes or
Your special hat—not even your
Coat that you save for those cold,
Cold nights
Ignore your car—payments or paid off
Your home—apartment, trailer, mansion
Your work uniform—whatever that may be

Make emergency stops only
You are still several miles from
The intersection of contentment and identity
And you have not been there
In far too long
Do not take inventory of how you look
In a summer dress or a tuxedo and bowtie
Don’t count your history with
Drugs and alcohol
Don’t count your computer, your television
Or that collection of movies
Or albums
Or books that you’ve been working on
Don’t take account of your ability to curl
Dead weight
It’s just curling dead weight
Don’t count the number of visible abs
You have
Or your BMI

You are so much more than a body
You are so much more than possessions
Your body and belongings have not
Done you well to feel like you belong

Instead take inventory of your joy
You have some joy don’t you?

Count your friends
Count your love letters
Count the moments when it rains
And you have an umbrella
Count the last time you had strawberries
Count the start of every kiss
Count the paid off credit cards
Actually, count those twice
Because freedom counts for twice as much
Account for all of your freedoms
Take inventory of playing catch with your dad
Your last home-cooked meal
Account for the last time you rode a bike
When you didn’t think about exercise, you just felt the wind
Count the times you wrapped birthday presents
Count the smell of the last bouquet of flowers you were given
Count the last time you went to the zoo
And you swore, nobody ever fell in love with the
Animals quite like you did
Cause you have an eye for beauty
And you’re seeing it everywhere
Take a deep breath inventory of the beauty you have seen

And when you can’t seem to find anything that matters
To take inventory of
Count those dark moments where you still
Have the hope to rack your brain
To try to find a memory where you had joy
If you still have hope to try to find it
That is joyful
All on its own
Because I know they can be hard to find sometimes
Those things worth taking inventory of
But I have found the greatest of these things is love
Not the way I love Pulp Fiction and Casablanca
But the way I love my wife
And my father and my mother
And a good rescue
Cause that is what I’ve had—a good rescue
And life is sweet like honey
Not because it’s easy
And certainly not because I feel good all the time
But because I have found joy in a rescued life that I can hope in
When I take a deep breath inventory
I have to realize all I have is love
The rest will go away someday
But not my hope and joy and love

you kissed
my childlike eyes
until I adjusted
to the
light in the
cave
of your mouth
you hot, ****
handgun
in high-heels

you’re
dancing
on a primetime
table
hammer-cocked
back
turned sideways
for show

commercial
breaks are
the 75 cent
bathroom
vending-machine
condoms
that couldn’t
stop
anything

you knew
what you were
doing
with all that
slinking around
in
lingerie and
leather
it didn’t matter
to you
that I was
only
ten

you kissed
my childlike eyes
with an
open mouth
until I adjusted
to the
light in the
cave
of your
tongue and
teeth and
lips
you hot, ****
handgun

in high-heels
you were
dancing
on a primetime
table
hammer-cocked
back
turned sideways
for show

commercial
breaks were
the 75 cent
bathroom
vending-machine
condoms
that couldn’t
stop
anything

are you as
proud of
my glorious
fist-fights
as you are of
how
good you
look
with the right
lighting?

my gaze is
handcuffed
to the bedpost
of death
and light-
hearted
****** mysteries

because it’s
just
make
believe
so what, if
it is pretty
violent
after all?
it is
pretty
it is
violent

sure, I’ll
grow
out of it
or get
over it
if I don’t
grow
into it
or get
under it

like I got
under your
sheets
“all the better
to snipe you
with, my dear”

and
I haven’t felt
any of it

Your smile was green
like a hint.
How a bud signals spring
you waved a flag
of familiar kindness and
my heart saluted
Which is
like love,
in a way

As I fidget with the paperclip
My eyes run away from perception

I am spacing out, outer space
Holds a universe of things

It has no lines or bends
Like a paperclip has

Or like a sharp knife has,
A universe is before my eyes

And the lines of a paperclip
In an office somewhere

Are whirling like razor comets
Cutting apart everything that

Might have been in front of me
Had I not run from dream-like worlds

That no one else can see

it's okay, Paper Heart,
after enough holes are poked
after enough rips are torn
the light can finally get through

We are always running
These streets holding us
As we hold hands
Your hand in mine,

We are running
We are running,
Not following anyone
Not following anything
We are unique
We are pioneers heading west
Not chased but willingly chasing the sunset
Where the horizon and the sky meet with a seamless kiss
We are hoping that they aren‘t the only things that love
          each other so much they can be together without
          leaving a mark

Not tearing or wounding or cutting or finding any cracks
          and fault lines, perfectly matched
One falling into the sea
One rising into the clouds
And on and on and on forever
Dripping off the edge of the known world

Who can know our world
Who could have chased us this far

We are alone in the wild
This rushing and running
Running from the streetlights falling away far behind us
Our hands tight like a taut rope from our shipwrecks
We are pulling one another from the depths
Neither an anchor
But both anchored together

Sinking
Sailing
Storming seas of sidewalk puddles and pavement bleeding
          together
No edges
No seams
No feet
No legs
No bodies
All running heart first shoulders back, eyes closed
Winds whirling around us

Running not following
Holding not falling
Chasing and ending somewhere in that kiss of sky and sea

Finally finding rest
Wrapped in a peaceful footstep folded-up asphalt blanket of
          each other‘s peace and preface
The only unstitched and perfect seam is the horizon that
          God wakes up and puts to bed where we find our
          heads were tucked in
But our hearts weren‘t allowed to end



(c) Marty Schoenleber III 2012

Flying is easy
My dad used to say

Just, throw yourself at the ground
And miss

The math is:
Many times many

Equals:
Times we’ve missed the mark

Well, Father, by now,
We should all be pilots

Everyone loves a poem
But much more when its sung

If you want to be remembered
Better to hum than flick your tongue

you don’t try to hide your breath on
a winter morning—it’s written into the air
I suppose, some things just are
so why hide this?
it’s okay, I can see,
your heart broke like a window
and you’re still pretending there’s glass
it’s okay
step on out, it’s not as cold as you may think
it’s not as cold as you may think

The crumbs of my bones
Get scattered on the waves
And they come washing home
On the cold back of gray foam
   Surfing the tide

You stood on the beach and waited
Waited and waited
And the crest of that wave
Folded and crashed like a grave
    Taking one last breath

Before it struck the cliff face at your feet
Like my throat opening
To let out your name
This poetry is the same
   Smashed to pieces by the wind

As it has always been the same
The same as it has always been
While you hope for salt air
While you tie your ribbons to driftwood
   While you watch shells break against the shore

I know, I’m still disappointing you
I may not be able to conquer
I might be lost at sea forever
   But I will be throwing open my sails

That I could yet float into your arms again
I’ll be pouring my apology until you say when

And if I become the captain I promised to be
I will leave all the sadness at the bottom of the sea
Until there is nothing left
   And there is nothing coming back but me

My spine makes a flimsy quill
When I first penned this poem
                                     crown
It meant          and               of me
             sole
Now I just hope it sounds naked
While I recite it with clothes on
As if I could turn a dial to show
The part of my heart it lands on
Here feigning an emotion so well
While in real life, I fight like hell
To hide it

You don’t know the first half of it
Cause there’s nothing here to fix
And I’ve seen the end of this
And it turns out fine
It turns out fine

I think it means something when it’s over
And every time it happens, I’m sad
Worse every year, and on the last day
We all know it’s here
We can feel it on the sides of our tongues
This bittersweetness
But I still want to roll the windows down
Turn the music up
And drive all night just to hold your hand
Quickly, while everything still looks golden
I want it to stay this way in my memories
So next summer we can start with stories
Do you want to chase the wind
Or do you wanna chase the wind?
Or do you wanna chase the wind with me?

Hold on and try not to miss
Any magic in the summer bliss
And I’ve seen the end of this
And it turns out fine
It turns out fine

How many summer nights have I forgotten?
And what does it mean to be in Fall again?
Why is one sort of weather so accommodating to joy
And why does it feel so important not to waste
If we go to the beach we can start a bonfire
And maybe it’ll stave off the end
And if it does I’ll tell the rest of the world that we found a trick
A loophole in the knot of our lives
Where the colors stay bright and the nights stay warm
Where it’s all happening and we haven’t missed anything
It’s out there if you’ll go
Or it’s out there if you’ll go
Or it’s out there if you’ll go with me

So, hold on and try not to miss
Cause there’s nothing here to fix
And the sunset is part of it
So, it’ll be alright
It’ll be alright

The basketball says thump thump thump to the concrete
Two black kids play a hoopless game. The rules? Intuitive.
The top stair railing of the apartment is a three pointer
Both of the walls along the side are an approved backboard
The grass is out of bounds, the door opening is a time out
The constant rattle of the railing assures without doubt
That they’re draining those shots like Ray Allen
It is the first day over 60 degrees all year and the boys
Smile like the sun granted permission for happiness
They are young and carefree and pulsing with life
But they will grow out of that fickle, temperamental joy
And they’ll rent a room or two in a brick apartment
With a red railing on the third floor, so they can listen
At times annoyed, at other times enchanted, I know this,
Because I am in a brick apartment, and I know the rules



(c) Marty Schoenleber III 2013

The days pass and
The dated squares
Accept their crosses and

It is not a relief to me
To finish another day
To check it off, as if

I were somehow
Impacting their passing—
Killing them with pink highlighter—

I am terrified of them
And I’m running away
From the wasted, twice-slashed
Past

How many poems
does it take
until ubiquity
stops sounding like
an echo off the walls of
an empty, dim cave?
Here I am
I am
I am

max was a good dog
and it doesn’t mean
                      anything

sitting in the dark long enough, your eyes adjust u

ntil shadows and outlines, the edges of things, be

come tangible. hard as metal, cold as ice. a body f

rozen in a lake. this is the edge of things. a photo

graph in gray. a sigh. a pen drawing circles until t

he page rips. ink bleeding through everything. an

abyss. abysmal. looking at a reflection, seeing thro

ugh it instead. hollow still has a shell at least. this

is the edge of things, where it stops. it stops…….